


the most impossible thing of all

by GrimRevolution



Series: the most haunted house in new york [4]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016)
Genre: Dark Magic, Demons, Exorcisms, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 08:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15092765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimRevolution/pseuds/GrimRevolution
Summary: In which Stephen gets angry at some rings, plays at being a ghost, and decides that in the muck of the world, he's grateful that there's good people.orLiving is an art, not a science.





	the most impossible thing of all

**Author's Note:**

> this is uhhhh the backstory of the t'challa and stephen part from strange happenings cause my brain couldn't let it go

“What are you _wearing_?” Wong had come through the portal from Kamar-Taj, his arms crossed over his chest and not looking all that amused at the man trying to sneak out under his nose.

Stephen froze before the door of the Sanctum and looked over his shoulder. The Silver Dagger was strapped to his jeans, black Beetles shirt from his college days—finally pulled out of storage—a bit too large over his thin shoulders. The Cloak had chosen to wrap itself around his neck in a scarf and hung over his back and chest.

Tugging self consciously at his shirt, Stephen frowned. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

 “You look like a serial killer.”

The Cloak snapped up, curling into an S, and flared its corners like a cobra.

 “I do _not_ ,” Stephen said, but his arm was grabbed anyway and his feet were forced up the Sanctum stairs. “Look, Wong, I don’t really own anything except five dollar shirts that can be bought from Wal-Mart and what I owned in college—” which hadn’t been much, “— _and_ I’m going to go exorcise a demon. Which could get messy.”

The girl had been spouting garbled Latin that sounded as if it had been spoken through a mouthful of marbles, her back twisted in liquorice shapes, and climbing over the walls like a crab.

Wong tugged Stephen down one of the hallways. “You are the Master of New York,” he said. “You need to at least dress like that matters.”

“It’s _New York_ , Wong. I could dress in a latex one-piece and no one would look twice.”

“Please—never do that,” Wong said, his voice sharp even with the amusement that had bled into his gaze. With a gentle tug, he got Stephen into the master bedroom. “It’s not New York that’s the problem; you were placed into the Master of this Sanctum by the Ancient One before she died.”

Stephen felt a rock drop into his stomach, heavy and aching. He remembered that moment—the panic that had seeped into his veins, the bile crawling up the back of his throat, the odd fire in Mordo’s eyes as the Ancient One spoke.

“I know,” he said, voice soft.

“Other Masters are questioning her choice; you just started your studies a couple years ago and have never fully been tested.” Wong opened the closet and frowned at the hanging shirts and pants. “One day, they will challenge you.”

Stephen bared his teeth in a partial snarl that was mostly sneer. “So, what; me wearing robes around Manhattan will help change their minds?”

“Not robes,” Wong said, shutting the closet door. He tapped his knuckles against the wood twice and opened it again. The t-shirts, hoodies, and jeans were gone, replaced by suit jackets and dress pants, ironed button up shirts, and a hanger of ties. “The Sanctum does provide all necessities.”

Stephen stepped up beside the shorter man, looked over the silks and wool and cotton. Arms crossed over his chest, the sorcerer turned his eyes to the ceiling.

“Does this mean you can restock the fridge, too?”

A notepad flew off the night table, smacking Stephen in the shoulder.

oOo

Stephen stepped out of his room thirty minutes later, his jeans replaced by grey trousers, a black blazer, and a dark red shirt. The Cloak settled around his shoulders again. “I look like a witch,” he told Wong.

“Better than a serial killer.”

“Is it?” Stephen took the Silver Dagger and its holster, sliding it between the waistband of his trousers and his skin. Something was woven through seams, little runes that had tiny bursts of magic that zapped playfully at his fingers. It smelled like iron shields and old forges.

Humming to himself, Stephen grabbed his wallet off the dresser and, after a moment, picked up the tarot cards. “If there are no more arguments,” he said dryly, “I’m going to go exorcise a girl and hope that she doesn’t gouge my eyes from my skull.”

“Have fun,” Wong said, patting the taller man between the shoulder blades, shoving him back towards the stairs.

Around them, the townhouse scrunched, hallway shortening and forcing Stephen to hip check the wooden banister. He looked up at the chandelier, sighing. Grumbles rolled over his tongue, wallet sliding easily into one pocket while the tarot cards staying in hand. “If the demon kills me,” Stephen told the Cloak-That-Was-Currently-A-Scarf, “you have permission to haunt Wong for the rest of his life.”

Red fabric rippled, rising and falling in the mimicry of a shrug. It went limp as he opened the door, playing the part of a boring bit of cloth while Stephen walked out into the world. New York was on one of the colder spring days; summer around the corner but not enough sunshine to warm up the overcast city. People had grabbed their long sleeve shirts, their hoodies, their thinner but still warm clothes, and they walked around.

Stephen shuffled absently through the cards in his hands, feeling the cards slide against his palms and press into the thin scars on the pads of his fingers. Fire tingled up his forearms, ivy wrapping around his wrists in a gentle hold . Looking down, there was nothing but the cards and his shaking hands.

He blinked and there was magic that broke across his skin like water, invisible to everything but the third eye.

“And what is it you want?” Stephen murmured, rubbing his thumb over the back of the cards. He drew the top one and felt the world around him stutter to a grinding halt.

A painted woman stood beside the massive head of a snake, a circular bit of grey fabric hanging loosely around her neck while her short hair covered her eyes from the light shining down on her head. In one hand she held a bundle of broken arrows and, floating above the other, there was a wreath of flowers whose petals fell down on the black scales of the serpent.

 The snake blinked and looked up at him. Scars were scattered along its back, a thicker one crossed one of the brown, pupil-less eyes. Stephen felt the ground dropped beneath his feet and the sky boiled, clouds tumbling over each other like stampeding horses, darkening before they open and released a storm of crimson rose petals.

Reaching out, Stephen touched one and watched as it melted against his skin, trickling over his fingers like blood. The other petals liquefied, becoming hot and coppery, falling upon him with a heavy wetness that soaked through his hair and dripped in rivers down his face.

“I—” He tried and the sidewalk was framed by barbed wire, spinning and growing like ivy in fast forward, choking the fences and plants, curling around the people and digging into skin. Chains of it fell from open doors and windows, woven into prisons that tightened around reaching, grasping hands. The sharpened wire carved into flesh, marking the skin with tally marks of pain.

“What is this,” Stephen breathed, “what have you _done_?”

The snake blinked again and fell out of the card, landing with talons and feathered wings on the ground. Wide, bulbous eyes stared up at Stephen before the owl took flight, screeching and feet spread as if to gouge his eyes from their sockets.

“Wait—!” Stephen cried, lurching backwards, hand outstretched—

The owl hit his hand and burst into sparks and leaves, floating past his face, wiping away the blood that had dried upon his skin.

People walked around Stephen, not caring for the man in the middle of the sidewalk, staring blankly at a painted card. His eyes focused on the word birthed in fire underneath the image.

 _Strength_.

A protector of the weak. A figure of defiance who refused to bow to the whim of others.

The vines of magic had faded from his arm, the world moving around him as it always had.

Stephen placed the card back into the deck and slid it into his pocket. The Silver Dagger was a soft weight against his hip, a thrumming kind of feeling that made him notice it even as he started walking, once more heading to the girl and the creature inside her.

“Thank you,” he said, pressing his fingers against the cards in his pocket. For the warning, for the help, for the utterly unhelpful but still welcome advice.

oOo

“I hate to tell you,” Stephen said to the girl with her black drenched eyes and broken teeth that had—during his time away—become sharpened and needle-like. “But you are not even in the top ten most important things I have to deal with today.”

She howled from her place on the wall, skittering over the torn paper. Saliva dripped over dry, torn lips to land in splatters across wood flooring. The family was downstairs, huddled as far away from the room as they could without actually leaving. Leather bonds were broken on the bed from where they had tried to hold her, the sheets torn by fingernails that had sharpened to claws.

“Giving me your name would make this easier on both of us— _particularly_ you.”

Another throat tearing, blood gurgling screech.

Stephen wrenched the Silver Dagger from its sheath as grasping talons and needle teeth aimed for his throat. The blade didn’t pierce flesh but _beyond_ , burying into the essence of the demon as it hissed and spat and snarled, raking it’s fingers down his chest—but the clothing pulsed and the threaded magic held. An armour of woven cotton. He slammed the girl’s body against the wall, forearm across her neck, pushing the dagger deeper.

“ _I cast you back into the pit_ —” Stephen pressed in closer as the creature screeched, “ _—back to the darkness that gave you birth—_ ”

The Silver Dagger burned under his skin.

“ _Begone_!”

Magic crackled like flimsy gift paper over his arms.

And nothing happened.

The demon laughed; the sound like a dog about to throw up. “ _You don’t know what those words mean, Sorcerer_ ,” it said, speaking up for the first time, voice was a cacophony of buzzing fly wings, creaking floorboards, and two pieces of aluminium foil rubbing together. The snicker that filled the room was like knives through Stephen’s ribs. “ _How could you hope to dispel me if you don’t have Their blessing_?”

“I have a plan B,” Stephen admitted, tearing the Silver Dagger from the chest of the girl and it through her forehead instead.

The demon shrieked, twisting and gurgling under Stephen’s hold. It clawed and screamed and _howled_ as fire burned through the black of its eyes—

A burst of energy threw the sorcerer backwards into the wooden dresser, the edge hitting the small of his back and sending him, careening, to the floor. Landing with a clatter beside him, the dagger gleamed underneath the sunlight.

“You looked pleased,” Stephen drawled, picking it off the floor before sliding it back into its sheath. Across from him, sprawled across the floor, the girl’s body was no longer twisted into pretzel shapes. Her teeth were back to unbroken cubes, eyes closed, chest heaving. Stumbling to his feet, Stephen had to catch himself on the dresser and winced at the soreness in his back and ribs. He sat down in the desk chair and leaned back, rubbing both hands over his face.

The girl sat up with a gasp, sweat dripping down her brow, a silver streak of scar tissue across her forehead where Stephen had stabbed the dagger.

“You’re safe now,” he told her, pressing his palms against the side of his thighs to hide their trembling.

oOo

Arms loaded with paper bags filled with Tupperware containers, Stephen walked back to the Sanctum. The family had invited him for dinner and, as if already knowing his answer, had set the food aside so he wouldn’t go home without some form of payment.

It still felt wrong, in some way. After all those years of demanding so much from the people who needed him, who was he to ever ask for anything in return for his services? Who was he to even pretend that he deserved it?

And why hadn’t the damn exorcism spell _worked_?

“What a mess,” Stephen grumbled and breathed in, hoping to settle the strange ache that had settled in his chest since the demon had refused to leave its host.

The smell of burnt plants mixed with something thick and rotting assaulted his nose instead of the smog of Manhattan and the sorcerer coughed, pressing his mouth into his arm. Eyes watering from the stench, Stephen turned to brace himself against one of the shops that lined the street, covering the lower half of his face with the still disguised Cloak of Levitation. “What is _that_?” He hissed, looking over the people on the street.

They walked as if nothing was wrong, laughing and chatting, staring at their phones or their feet. Stephen took a second deep breath, bracing himself for the stench. Opening the senses meant opening _everything_ , not just sight.

But a little more warning from the Ancient One would have been appreciated.

“Okay,” Stephen shifted the bag in his arms and closed his eyes. _Focus._

He relaxed his shoulders against the wall, felt the brick catching on the back of his blazer. The sounds of the city fell away, dripping past the people and gutters and the sound of cars passing down the street.

“ _I could listen to that accent all night long._ ”

Stephen opened his eyes to the world bleeding colour around the edges. His Cloak, wrapped snugly around his neck, was still crimson, the gold thread in his clothes illuminating, and, above the passing cars, a florescent pink smoke drifted. It spun and twisted, unhindered by any breeze or person that passed through it, uncaring for the world around it.

Shifting his weight, Stephen followed the trail with his eyes as it curved around steel, circled plastic, and twisted around people. There was a man, his dyed hair combed over to the left, a pair of rectangular glasses on his nose, leaning towards a woman who had a shawl wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

He looked familiar, like something that had passed on the internet or an old joke he couldn’t remember the punchline to.

Rolling his shoulders, Stephen walked back the way he had come; taking the earliest opportunity he could to cross the street. Pink smoke spun around the woman, creating a web that covered her eyes and bound her mouth. It was coming out of a ring on the man’s hand—a silver thing, clunky and large and almost Victorian looking with a massive pink gem that glimmered as brightly as the Cloak of Levitation.

 _Something old_ , Stephen mused, made sure he was gripping the bag, and walked forward as a crowd of college students passed. They forced him towards the man and the ring—close enough that their shoulders could smack into each other.

Pink flared, hissing and spitting, striking out at Stephen and slamming into pulsing threads of gold across his blazer.

For a moment, Stephen’s attention was on the war of wills between the two magics—

A hand grabbed the black blazer, forcing him around and knocking his back against the wall. “Hey!” Stephen cried, just about tripping over his own legs but managing to keep a hold on the bag in his arms. Palms were against his shoulders, shoving him into the wall of the nearest shop. Bony elbows hit the brick sending shockwaves of white hot needles through the metal in scarred hands.

“Yo!”

“What the—”

Stephen tried to blink away the sudden sparks in his vision, his hold on the bag faltering until his hands twitched and stuttered like a car engine and it was falling through—

 _Damn,_ Stephen thought absently, unable to do anything but grit his teeth and watch. _Please don’t spill, please don’t spill._ It had looked like damn good lasagne.

Different hands caught it—the woman with the shawl. Torn pink shrapnel fluttered from around her, landing on the ground and dissipating. She cradled the food in her arms, dark eyes glinting and wide. Behind her, the crowd of college students had stopped and were watching the scene.

“Daniel,” said the man with the ring, his eyes flickering between the figure that stood over Stephen, hands still pushing the sorcerer into the stone, the woman who now held the paper bag, and the sharp eyed kids. “It was just an accident, let him go.”

Bodyguard. Alright then.

Stephen straightened his blazer, brushed down the fabric, and turned towards the woman holding his bag. “Thank you,” he said. “Would you mind carrying it for me for a bit longer?” Lifting his hands, he showed her the miniscule twitches that roiled through the joints and muscles. He knew how they must look; like someone had managed to sneak in a few extra joints and left the scars of their handiwork behind.

“Yes,” she said, the rolling vowels of Italian on her tongue. Her eyes shone with something that could have been jazz music on a warm summer night. “ _Yes_ , of course.”

The pink smoke was still wafting out of the ring, floating aimlessly upwards, torn between the students and Stephen. Looking over the man who owned the ring, the sorcerer memorized his face, smiled at the woman who had offered to walk with him, and turned towards the Sanctum.

oOo

One microwaved plate later, Stephen sat cross-legged on the Cloak currently acting like a flying carpet. He was well above the chairs, laptop hovering in front of him, lasange just above his lap. “No,” he told the computer as it scrolled through faces. “No, no.” The fork fell from his fingers for the fourth time in the past five minutes and Stephen sighed, catching it with magic before it hit the ground. “Stop that,” he told his twitching hand.

“Stephen?” Wong stepped into the kitchen and looked around at the floating objects, raised one eyebrow, and frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Arguing with Google,” Stephen grumbled then motioned to the Tupperware on the counter. “There’s plenty; help yourself.”

Wong picked one up and lifted the lid. “Where’d this come from?”

“Girl with the demon has a nice family. The father’s a really good cook. Owns a restaurant and everything.” Stephen frowned at another picture that passed on the laptop’s screen. “Definitely not. White man, comb over, square glasses, looks like a grease ball.”

A picture of Donald Trump popped up like some porn ad that played shitty corporate elevator music accompanied by high toned screeching.

Stephen pretended to gag. “ _Ugh_ , no, gross. Get his face out of here.”

“And how did the exorcism go?”

“Fine. Not dead. Not messy.” Stephen shoved a chunk of lasagne into his mouth. “Was rough at the beginning; I should have brought a _hell-_ met.”

Wong froze, holding the food in one hand and digging a plate out of the cabinet with the other. “Stephen,” he said, voice low and warning.

The Cloak fluttered, pleased; it’s laughter a sound of rubbing silk and snapping wool.

“There’s been an influx of demons all over this _damn nation_.”

“Strange, I _swear_ —”

“It’s almost,” blue eyes shone with warm mischief, “as if they’re _soul-_ ar powered.”

Wong groaned, long and loud. He placed the food back down on the counter, rubbed one hand over his face, and turned back towards the foyer.

Stephen snorted and tried to calm the giggles working their way up his throat. “Come on!” he called after the librarian. “Those were pretty good!”

“I don’t want to see your face or hear your voice for a _week_.”

Pressing his hand against his chest, Stephen gasped. “Who?” his eyes were wide and innocent, his smile like a crocodile’s. “ _Me_?”

Wong rolled his eyes so hard they looked as if they’d pop out of his skull, grumbling ‘I don’t know you,’ as he left.

Stephen hummed, smiling to himself and with warmth in his stomach that was partially due to the food he was eating. “Oh, hey, pause,” he pointed his fork at the computer. “That’s him.”

Skeevey, sleezy, grimeball man.  Still with the comb over, still with the glasses, and his smile was twisted as if a child in one of those small plastic driveable jeeps had run over his toes.

Ambassador James Hoffman with a little silver magical ring on his finger.

oOo

“I feel like I’m in college again,” Stephen told the Cloak of Levitation, books stacked up in towers on his desk. Some were strewn about on the wood, opened on jewellery, rings, metals, and gems. “Only I don’t have to write a paper.” His little enchanted pen did most of the note taking for him as his hands still throbbed and numbed and throbbed again after their incident earlier.

Most of what he found was about cursed necklaces, blessed charms, secret little gifts from hidden witches to their children that grew with love and care and wildfire beauty. He flipped through the pages until his fingers cramped and magic had to be used instead.

Stephen shed his body on the couch after the fifth book, using his astral form to read it instead.

The world passed in the same timeframe where twenty–five years felt like yesterday and yesterday was earlier that morning and morning was lifetimes away.

“Here,” Stephen said, placing his finger on a drawing of a silver ring with a pink gem. It was surrounded by two others—a flat band fitted with blue and a thin, dainty little thing with yellow. “The Rings of Compulsion.”

A trio, forged by a man in Tibet who had heard whispers of power and sought to make it his own. But they left him, fleeing to others, and watched him rot on the fingers of their new masters. Each had the power to gift; a subtle wish and a granting of desires. Soft, but strong magic that could fit under the radar.

Unless you were the Master of New York with an affinity of sensing spells at work.

The Ring had vanished in World War II Europe.

Stephen dropped back into his body and leaned back in his chair, the Cloak settling in his lap. Some magical relics existed in the world and caused no harm. They were nothing more than little secret pockets on the edges of knowledge, protecting their wearing, granting little gifts of their own pleasure. Magic was not evil; it was a tool. Like how a knife is a tool used to cook.

But Stephen thought about the way pink smoke had blinded the woman on the street, how it had bound her lips and her hands.

And he thought; _‘no_ ’.

oOo

The problem with Ambassadors was that they didn’t sit still for too long. By the time Stephen had tracked down Ambassador Hoffman, the man was already on a plane to head to another meeting in Austria for the United Nations. Something about Wakanda and trade agreements.

There was a possibility that he could steal it. Sneak in like a thief and just take it while the man was sleeping, but the book advised against it. The ring must be _won_.

‘Or be prepared to face retaliation’, whatever _that_ meant.

Cloak hanging from his shoulders, wearing nothing more than a loose t-shirt and some sweatpants, Stephen dug through the Sanctum’s closet. The townhouse offered light shirts and embroidered three piece suits, jeans and trousers, soft lounge pants and tank tops.

“I could always come back if I don’t have everything I need,” Stephen mused.

A duffle bag fell off the top shelf, draping over his head and shoulders. He pushed it off with a sputter and the Cloak brushed its collar against his cheeks.

“Fine,” he said. “ _Fine_ , I see how it is.” Stephen sniffed and undid the zipper (there was a little clasped keychain on it that tingled under his fingers) only to look into a long abyss. “That’s a bit... _much_ ,” He stuck his hand into the bag but it just kept going further and further down until the sorcerer had pressed his body against the floor and the canvas was flat underneath him.

 _Still_ his arm moved through open space.

Pulling back up, Stephen looked up at the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure if I put anything in here I’ll never see it again.”

A ring of coins with butterfly clasps dropped from the same space the bag had come from, landing on the floor with a clatter and pushed towards Stephen by the Cloak. “Huh,” the sorcerer picked them up, ran his hand over the first couple and the sigils carved into them.

The one on the bag had its own engraving—different from all the others—and Stephen removed it from the zipper.

“Oh,” blinking twice, Stephen stared at the bottom of the bag. Blue canvas, just like the rest. “Okay.” He held up the ring of coins with their carved sigils and grinned.

The bag turned into a portable library, a dojo, a swimming pool. There was a coin to make it bigger, smaller, to turn it into a backpack or even make it yellow instead of blue.

“I hope you never stop surprising me,” Stephen told it, the Cloak, and the Sanctum.

oOo

Standing in the foyer, duffle bag over one shoulder, Cloak having taken the form of a high collared sweater-jacket on his person, Stephen patted down his pockets. “Passport, phone, wallet, uhh... _keys_?” The Sanctum groaned beneath him. “I know, I _know_ ; don’t need to lock you but just excuse a paranoid old man, alright?” He had smoothed back his hair, wrestled his bangs into submission with some gel, and had a pair of aviator sunglasses on his nose.

“Book about sigils? Check. Book about the rings? Check. Clothing? Check. Toiletries? Check.” Stephen counted everything off on his fingers. “Am I missing anything?”

The Cloak shifted on his body, creating a brass zipper that went from the top of the collar underneath his chin to going across his heart. Two snap clasps formed, covering the metal teeth. Around him, the Sanctum was equally unhelpful in its silence.

Tugging his sling ring on, Stephen took one last look around the Sanctum. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised. “No wild parties while I’m gone.” The vase nearest to him shook in amusement at the oldest joke it had never heard, and the sorcerer laughed softly to himself and walked from Manhattan, New York to Vienna, Austria.

It was dark, closer to one in the morning, and the Ambassador’s plane would be landing in five hours.

Hostel first, sleep second, then breakfast and a plan. Stephen rubbed his hands together and stepped out onto the street. Music thrummed through the night, beating against the street like old war drums. Stephen got on his phone to find the cheapest place he could—somewhere to say for just a couple of nights—and turned towards boarding that would cost thirteen dollars for two nights.

He could have used a portal, but the night was in the crust of spring, full of fresh laughter and the sight of friends and family and lovers leaning on each other. Hands in his pockets, Stephen watched the people he passed, a small smile on his face.

It was all just so... _human_.

This is what he died for. Over and over and _over_.

For the mess and the love and the simple humanity of it all.

For _life_.

Stephen reached the white building with a red stripe over the door and found a concrete staircase lined by a black iron banister that led past two vending machines. It was only about ten, short steps, and they led to a sign pointing to the reception area.

People sat on stone blocks covered in black and red cushions, playing a game of cards on a matching, flat table. The desk was manned by a young man reading a magazine, nails painted nebula purple.

“English?” Stephen greeted, because his German was awful and his Hungarian worse.

“Ja,” the man looked up from his reading, eyes dragging up Stephen’s torso before meeting his eyes. “Reservation?”

Stephen shook his head.

Humming, the receptionist pulled away to focus on the computer to the left. “How long?”

“Two nights.”

“Ahh...” The keyboard clicked under those nails. “There are no more private rooms.”

Shrugging, Stephen adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “A dorm is fine,” he said. Behind him, the group erupted into laughter, their game ending with a joyful climax.

Eleven-twenty in Euros. Thirteen dollars.

Stephen handed over the exact change his wallet had given him and accepted the key offered in return. He was clipping it onto the ring holding the Sanctum’s keys.

“Hey!” Someone shouted from the shuffling cards. “Where are you from?”

Blinking, Stephen looked up and saw the group watching him. Two girls were leaning into each other, elbows hooped and giggling. Another was sitting on the floor, leaning up against a man’s torn jeans, bottle of beer in one hand cell phone in the other. The last three were all guys—one with a Mexican football jersey, one whose hair was braided back into a ponytail, and the last with tattoos up and down his arms.

“The States,” Stephen told them, a smile playing on the edge of his lips.

“Yeah,” the girl on the floor rolled her eyes, German clipping the letters. “But _where_?”

Stephen walked closer. “New York,” he admitted.

“Oh!” one of the girls on the seats clapped her hands, bracelets twinkling like fairies. “I’ve never been to New York! Sit next to me.” She patted the stone by her thigh, scooting and making the woman next to her laugh as they squished together.

Four hours until the Ambassador arrived.

What the hell?

Stephen sat down.

oOo

With the trembling of his hands and the aching in his joints on the backburner, Stephen revelled in how much he had forgotten about travelling. His youth in the back country of Nebraska had exposed him to the wonders and the wildness of simply just existing in a place, lost and exploring at the same time. Going to college, getting his PhD and Doctorate, and even becoming a world renowned neurosurgeon couldn’t touch that.

The smell of eggs had woke him up close to noon, the German girl—Sofia—was standing at the stove in a pair of short shorts and black crop top, a blue tooth speaker sitting by the sink and playing soft, bouncy music. Careful of the bed over his head, Stephen sat up and heard the person above him groan and turn over.

“Morning, Mister New York Man,” Alexsei was sitting at the table, one leg crossed over the other, book in hand. She had been the one that invited him to sit the night before.

Stephen hadn’t met the third roommate yet—it sounded as if they’d come in after the rest of them had gone to bed. “Morning,” combing his hand through his hair, Stephen got to his feet and looked around for the Cloak. It was behaving itself, hanging on the hooks by the door as a sweater-jacket. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” Alexsei tilted her head to the side, watching him. “Will you stay for breakfast?”

He smiled apologetically. “Can’t; I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?” Sofia spooned the eggs onto a couple of plates. “Business? Or pleasure?”

Stephen grabbed his bag of toiletries and a towel from the closet. “How about pleasurable business?” He swept out of the room with a wink and heard the women laugh behind him. The showers were empty and he took the time to open the bottle of shampoo to lather it in his hair. There was no need to struggle with a slick bottle under the spray when he could just rub it all in beforehand.

 The water was still cold when he got in, pounding gently against old scars and muscles, waking Stephen up. There was an odd giddiness that rose up in his stomach—something about just being alone and away and in someplace new that had him grinning.

One shave later (after he had wiped down the sink with his towel), Stephen was stepping into the room he shared with the girls and found them at the table, plates empty, and leaning over a phone to flip through the pictures. The guy who had still been sleeping was gone along with one of the towels.

“Do you know where the ironing board is?” Stephen dug through his duffle, pulling out a black dress shirt, matching pants, a gold tie, and a red vest.

“I think it’s in the closet?” Sofia waved in the direction of the folding door. 

It was and Stephen laid out the silk, made sure his body blocked what he was doing, and straightened out the wrinkles with magic. For the shirt and trousers he just ironed them, humming with the motion of him arm. The girls had turned back to music by the time he was shrugging his shirt on and fumbling with the buttons. It was a soft pop song; Rudimental, _These Days_.

He buckled his belt, tied the tie, and pulled on the vest.

“You clean up nice, Mister New York Man.”

Stephen laughed and turned to Alexsei, smoothing down the fabric and ignoring the way it caught on his scars. As a second thought, he pulled out a pair of slim, black silk gloves and pulled them on. “Thank you,” he said with a grin. “I’ll probably be back early evening.”

“Don’t work too hard!” Sofia called after him.

Stephen looked back over his shoulder, gave them a smile and a wave, pulled the Cloak off the hook, and left. Red fabric shifted as he swung it around his shoulders, becoming a long coat instead of the jacket-sweater. In the privacy between the vending machines and the front door, he made a portal to take him to the offices of the United Nations.

Unlike New York with its big blocking wall of a building that sat blocking the sightline of Queens, the Vienna United Nations offices were curved, crescent buildings. Orange broke up the bland grey-beige of the concrete, and the windows were smaller instead of stretching from the base to the tops. Open green land separated the buildings, broken by walkways that were being travelled by foreign dignitaries and the average jogger all at once.

There was a cafe across the street with newspapers in Hungarian, German, and English. Stephen bought a cup of green tea, a pastry, took one of the papers off the stand, and grabbed a seat.

He let his tea steep, watching people move in and out of the UN. Cars pulled to the front picking people up and dropping them off. A group of tourists ambled around the doors, hesitating for a moment before someone came out to guide them in.

A buzzing energy was inside the small little coffee place; filled with people who were in a hurry and others who were ready to sit down and enjoy themselves for a short time. Stephen tapped his fingers against the side of the small, white cup he’d been given, the string of the teabag catching on the soft fabric of his gloves.

The water grew darker and Stephen laid out his paper, picked up the bag, and swung it over the words. He thought about the Ambassador and his ring, thought about the rest of the day, thought about the strange weight of spell craft between his eyes, and the tea dripped.

It was nothing more than some kitchen sink divination—nothing as complex as using actually scrying the tarot cards, or even the time stone—but  it could cast some glimmer of light into the future. Stephen put the bag on the saucer and took a sip of his tea as he waited for the paper to dry.

Heat buzzed through him like bees in the summer and Stephen leaned back into his chair, closing his eyes at the subtle sweetness of honey. The newspaper was splattered with woody-brown when he looked down at it, whole words and letters highlighted.

 _Wakanda_ wasn’t a surprise but the _2:30_ was a bit more helpful.

It was the other letters that made Stephen frown.

_G-I-R-L._

He folded the newspaper into a small square and slid it into his pocket before getting up to find an area private enough to meditate.

oOo

There was no need for false badges or lies when Stephen could simply send his astral form into the UN. Sitting beneath a tree, spells cast to make himself unnoticeable, the Sorcerer flew through the walls of the meetings currently deciding various futures.

The Wakandans were easier to find. There was a strange magic following them—something made of night and movement. A Spirit had encircled King T’Challa; phantom spirals of sand that made the head of a big cat. Her golden eyes covered those of the man, creating a mask. When the King turned his head, the Panther looked at Strange, assessing him with quick flicks of her tail.

She was a blessing; a fraction of a goddess that still walked upon the earth. There were so few blessings left in the world that had not perished from disbelief. Stephen bowed his head in acknowledgement and respect.

Her tail curled in pleasure and golden eyes blinked, slowly.

Stephen floated closer, not to touch, but to learn. His eyes were wide in awe. “You’re beautiful,” he said, voice soft as if he was afraid that the sound would reveal his astral presence.

The Spirit chuffed with great rumbles, the sound like a stuttering truck engine.

T’Challa stopped walking and frowned, looking around as his guards paused beside him.

“My King?”

“Apologies, Okoye,” he said and his voice was like the panther’s. “I thought I felt something.”

‘Sorry’, Stephen mouthed to the King and turned his attention to the Spirit. “Who are you a gift of?” He mused, watching the shifting, forming sand of her features. There were two he could think of; two that might be able to provide the protection in the shape of a panther, but White Colonialism had trashed and stomped out so much culture and knowledge that there was no way of knowing. Anything written about Africa that came from the mouths of _white people_ could hardly be considered _facts_.

(He would have liked to have asked Daniel Drumm about the Spirits of the world.

Daniel, one of Haiti’s Hougans and a child of VoDou, who had taken the duty of being the New York protector until the Ancient One could find someone to relieve him.

That request had killed him.

 _Kaecilius_ had killed him.)

The Panther Spirit blinked again, tail curling in small, shifting circles. _Bast_ , she told him, the name rumbling through his body like water crashing against rocks.

Bast; the goddess of protection and blessings. A guardian of women, children, and domestic cats.

“It’s an honour to meet you,” Stephen said, bowing his head.

She flicked her tail and gazed at him with half lidded eyes, pleased in such a feline way that Stephen almost laughed. The rounded ears flicked, turning to attention, and the Sorcerer was aware of how small he was under her gaze. His entire life could be observed by those great, gold eyes.

And Stephen knew that his life was not a copulation of events that could inspire mercy in higher beings.

“Agent Ross,” T’Challa, dragging Stephen’s attention back to the United Nations and the King he was floating besides. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

An American—blonde hair cut short in military precision, face softened with a smile—approached. Neither man offered a hand, instead making an X with their arms over their chest in some sort of salute.

“They asked me to sit in on the meetings,” Ross said, waywardness in the curve of his smile, “seeing as I’m still the only one who’s been to Wakanda.”

“Ah,” T’Challa said, the sound more of a hum than a word. “You should return soon. Shuri has some...” He hesitated, a grin growing on his lips, “ _ideas_.”

Ross looked unimpressed. “The last time,” he said, strained as if he was pained, “Shuri had an ‘idea’ I was hanging off the side of a cliff for an hour.”

The woman standing to the left of the king laughed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ross said, crossing his arms over his chest. But there was mirth tickling the corner of his mouth.

“I am not sure what you find so funny, General Okoye,” T’Challa’s own eyes were bright with mischief. “You complained about having to climb those cliffs for days.”

Okoye snorted and turned ever so slightly away. Her shoulders straightened like a displeased lioness. “My King,” she said, “I would _never_.”

Stephen watched them with growing amusement and a growing awkwardness that came from being at a party accidently. When they started moving, he drifted further back to let them talk in private, following the group through the building until they reached one of the offices.

Pink smoke drifted in the air, wafting between people like a poison.

The Ambassador was in a slightly wrinkled white button up and a too-long black suit jacket, but he looked like an overgrown child in his father’s clothes compared to the sleekness of T’Challa’s black and silver suit. Leaning back, Stephen let the judgement bleed onto his features. At least he had always made sure all of his clothing had actually _fit_ before the accident. Now, out of the way of the ever observing eyes of the 1% he didn’t have to care as much but he still made sure he didn’t walk around with the sleeves of his shirts hanging over the back of his hands.

Okoye didn’t look impressed either as T’Challa shook Hoffman’s hand. That pink and silver ring was still there, its smoke spinning around the King’s wrist as if it wanted to bind the two men together.

A snarl rose from the Panther Spirit and the smoke flinched back, fleeing to its master.

“It _should_ be afraid of you,” Stephen told her, earning a warm rumble in response. The fact the ring had tried to influence T’Challa was worrying. If it ran off desire, then the Ambassador wanted something from the King.

How many people had he been able to influence? How many were _still_ influenced? Stephen stayed back and he watched, arms crossed over his chest, as the meeting continued.

oOo

 Stephen blew a completely shameless kiss to the Panther Spirit as he followed Hoffman through the United Nations. He winced every time the Ambassador flirted with a woman and tried his best to wave away the pink that tried to weave itself around them. The whole thing was a bit of a nuisance seeing that the man had four more meetings—each one longer than the last.

“I hope you step on a lego,” Stephen told Hoffman when the man was finally getting into his car at the end of the day. “I hope you step on one of the small, single space legos hidden under the carpet so you feel every bit of pain it has to offer.”

Not even caring if his astral body caused the man any discomfort, Stephen crawled into the car.

He froze, nose to nose with a woman. Her hair had been cut to her shoulders, eyes painted with dark eyeliner and green eye shadow that made her dark eyes seem even darker.

Pink wrappings pulsed, as solid as he had ever seen them. They covered her mouth, her eyes, her _hands_.

“No,” Stephen breathed, “No, _no_ —” He reached for the braids around thin wrists and _tugged_ —

Something bright and hissing and furious hit him across the chest, sending his body through the roof of the car and onto the street.

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ —” Stephen pulled himself out of the asphalt to shoot after the car pulling into traffic. It didn’t have far to go—the hotels that the United States personnel stayed at were just over the river—but a different type of urgency burned in his stomach. It was hot enough that, had he been in his body, the sorcerer was sure he would have felt the need to vomit.

Oh.

 _Oh._ His body.

He couldn’t do magic in the astral plane.

Stephen followed the duo through the lobby of a hotel that looked like it cost people their life savings to stay a night. People passed around, murmuring to each other. A bar sat in the corner, empty—for now.

The last time the bonds had been broken, Stephen had knocked into the Ambassador, causing enough of a distraction that the desire was lost. So he would have to do something like that again without punching Hoffman in the face.

No problem. Piece of cake. Easiest thing he’s ever done.

 “I don’t suppose you have any ideas,” Stephen asked the light in the elevator. It didn’t answer. Typical useless inanimate object.  “Yeah,” he sighed as the doors opened. “I didn’t think so.”

The only option—which depended completely on tiny little pockets where the astral plane and the physical dimension had crossed—was to play a ghost. Just to test, he swung his hand at a light in the hallway and got minimal flickering.

Better than nothing.

The hotel room was no different from any others with its single bed, television, coffee maker, and bathroom. Stephen darted past Hoffman and the girl. There weren’t a lot of small objects and he tried the light switch but it just went through his fingers. Plastic skittered across wood when he tried to grab the remote, but it didn’t move for him again.

Hoffman had his hand on a pale thigh, grinning with all his teeth, leaning close enough to the woman that their bodies were practically flush. Pink had almost covered her, draped like robes across her torso and her face so she had no features, no voice. Her hands jerked as if to push him off, but they were brought back down by strings.

“ _Fuck_ you,” Stephen snarled at James Hoffman.

The ring, in response, slapped him through the television and into the next room. Gathering himself before he could go tumbling farther, Stephen shot back through the wall, hitting plastic.

“Oh my god!” the woman screeched, lurching back as the entire entertainment system went crashing to the floor. Hoffman had wrenched away, both of them staring at the broken plastic and glass with wide eyes and open mouths.

The pink hadn’t broken, but it was frayed around the edges as if someone had gone at it with a mystical knife. Floating in the middle of the hotel room, Stephen looked down at the mess beneath his feet. He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing.

The hospital. The fight with the zealot. Things had only moved when he had gone _through_ them.

Stephen smirked and threw his body at the lamp.

“Holy _shi—_ ”

Half of Stephen’s torso went through the wall, but he heard the light bulb hit the ground and shatter. It took some manoeuvring to get himself back through the plaster—because it felt like he was _stuck_ somehow, and that didn’t make any sense.

Hoffman was shaking, sweat beading along his brow, the whites of his eyes visible, throat working to swallow nothing.

 _Good_. Something dark hissed inside of Stephen and he threw himself at the second lamp. That one he could watch hit the ground with some sick satisfaction and Hoffman broke away from the girl, shoving her forward into the room as he turned around and fled. His desire to flee was greater than her, and Stephen watched the last of the magic snap and fall away.

The door to the hotel room slammed shut and then there was just Stephen and the woman.

He didn’t know her name, he didn’t know anything about her. She was just another little piece in Hoffman’s magical rampage.

And that was the truly sad part about it; that all that magic was a catalyst for what the man wanted and he had no idea. It controlled people, it controlled the world around him, and yet its power was completely consequential compared to what it could do if Hoffman knew it was there.

But it _hurt_ people anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen said, unable to do anything as the woman collapsed against the wall and slid down, hands on her face. There was glass on the floor, broken pieces of plastic like shrapnel scattered under and in front of furniture.

Finding the Ambassador could come later.

Stephen kneeled in front of her, opening the barrier between the dimensions. “You didn’t deserve any of this,” he said.

She slammed backwards into the wall, hands close to her chest, eyes wide and mascara smeared under her lashes. Tears were sticking to the end of her lashes and had created shining trails down her cheeks. “I—” she tried and it became ‘who’ and ‘what’ before the words stopped trying to come.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Stephen held up his hands and watched with some bemusement as one went through the lampshade that had rolled across the floor. “I’m sorry for trashing the room.”

“It’s not mine,” she said, the words spilling out of her lips as if they were pebbles tumbling down a mountainside. Shock had gripped her—later she’d probably wonder if all this was some mad dream. If there’d actually been a ghost in front of her or if had been nothing more than her imagination.

Stephen grinned. “Good, then I don’t have to worry about fixing it.” He pulled himself fully out of the Astral plane and sat in front of her, legs crossed, and braced his palms on his knees. “Are you—?”

“Please,” she raised her hand to stop him, “ _don’t_.”

He nodded and waited as she wiped her eyes and took deep, trembling breaths. They sat there in silence for a time and Stephen watched her face descend from horror to fury. There was something magnificent about it; like watching lightning form across clouds in slow motion.

She would be okay. Maybe not that night, maybe not that week. But she would be.

“I have to go,” Stephen said as the light vanished from the windows. He’d have to track down Hoffman, but that was easy enough even in a city as large as Vienna. Standing up, he headed towards the hallway.

One hand through the door, he paused. “I know that it’s hard to hear right now,” Stephen said, eyes on the locks. “But you didn’t deserve this. And it’s not your fault.”

The sound of hitching breath made his shoulders straighten. But there was a small, tremulous laugh that seemed all the brighter for how quiet it was.

“Thank you,” the woman murmured.

Stephen slid through the door and back into the Astral plane.

oOo

 “Never,” Stephen said, stretching out his shoulders and back, wincing as he heard the bones crack and the joints pop, “ _never_ again.” He rubbed at his ribs that had been in the same position for hours and rolled out the cramps clinging to his calves. “Ow, ow, _ow_.”

The park was dark when he left the circle of spells, kicking dirt over drawn sigils to disrupt the magic. Like some rusted over car, he had to start slowly, getting his joints used to the feeling of moving again.  It took only one try to make a portal to Hoffman’s room (the woman gone, the mess still on the floor) and Stephen ducked into the bathroom.

The florescent light made everything look harsher, colder. It was as if the room was trying to shoo Stephen away, saying he had caused enough trouble there that day. There was a higher possibility that he was just projecting his own guilt onto everything, but the knowledge didn’t stop the sorcerer from wincing and muttering a ‘sorry’ as he dug through toiletries to find anything of use.

Stephen stole a hair from a comb, held it up to the light with two fingers, and lit it with a blazing crackle of golden sparks. A simple location spell, easy enough, and it found the Ambassador a couple of blocks away in a bar. Since using magic in the middle of dozens of people was probably not the best idea, he focused on finding a bathroom instead.

He stepped out in the handicapped toilet stall, smoothed down his vest, and opened the door. The bathroom was empty and, with dark walls, it seemed bigger than the space probably was. Stephen removed his gloves and turned on the sink, watching soap suds flow over his scars. When the Ancient one had died, his hands had shook so hard that the water had splattered across his tunic and the mirror. Now, they were steady. Maybe not as much as they had been pre-accident, but he didn’t feel as if they were belonged to someone else.

Stephen looked up in the mirror. His bangs were hanging loose and over his forehead, eyes glazed with something akin to exhaustion. He used magic to fix his hair and hide the pallor of his skin, straightening up his appearance to become the Doctor Strange of a few years ago.

This was his area, not that of the Master of New York.

Sweeping out of the bathroom, Stephen pulled the silk back over his hands while his coat fluttered at his heels. He stepped out of one pair of shoes and into another familiar if older pair. It hadn’t taken him all that long to learn—long after he was just a farm boy from Nebraska—how to sweep aside the upbringing and to blend in with the glasses of wine and silk ties.

The Ambassador was easy enough to find; close to the bar, three glasses already empty. His tie was loosened, jacket hanging lifelessly from his shoulders. “Water, please,” Stephen asked the bartender and was given his order almost immediately. He let the cold of the ice seep into his skin, cooling off the anger that had simmered deep below the edges of his thoughts.

Stephen folded the emotion like a blanket. Touched the corners, straightened the fabric, soothed the wrinkles, and then folded it again and again and _again_ until it was nothing more than a small square sheet that could be shoved into the closet until it was needed next winter.

Sometimes the best approaches were the easiest.

“Ambassador Hoffman?”

The man had a shimmering kind of look to his eyes, something like blooming terror and sickness. Only part of it was caused by the alcohol—Stephen could see that easily enough. It took a different kind of eye to see how Pink smoke drifted around Hoffman’s face, smothering and poisonous.

“My name is Doctor Stephen Strange, I’ve been following your work for a couple of years—” the lie sat heavy and bitter on his tongue. But the smile was worse and it burned down his throat.

The glaze in Hoffman’s eyes cleared, just a bit. “Oh! Doctor Strange how—” He swallowed and dabbed a cloth across his forehead, “Yes, yes I know who you are—”

Stephen blinked and swallowed down his surprise but didn’t quite manage it. “Oh?” he said instead.

And then it was there in the forefront of his mind; why the Ambassador had looked so familiar. There’d been a paparazzi glamour show, him sitting five tables down from Hoffman and the governor of Seattle. He hadn’t really cared about the speeches, had barely listened, and had kept the people around him entertained by using his medical knowledge to perform small parlour tricks.

“Ah, yes, I remember,” Stephen shed his coat, draping it across the empty seat and rolled up his sleeves in simple, quick motions before sitting down. “You asked if I could read your hands—”

“But you said that you had an operation in the morning and had to leave,” Hoffman finished.

That had been only partially true. In honestly, he had been exhausted from doing research and finishing up a paper so he could send it out to get peer reviewed. So many people gathered around his chair had made him itchy even though he had basked in the attention back then.

“It looks as if I’m out of the operating business,” Stephen said, smiling wirily. “But I could still read your hands if you’d like.”

Nothing magical about it. Just scars and calluses and those little bumps from hobbies that never went away.

Hoffman downed the rest of his drink, placed the glass next to the others, and held out his hands to Stephen. The ring sat there, innocently on his pointer finger, the joints bony and swollen. “It is a _handsome_ ring,” the sorcerer turned his attention, burning and flirtatious, to the ambassador, “but I’m more interested in your hands.”

A stuttering, nervous laugh left Hoffman and he stared at the ring as if he’d never seen it, as if it was the only thing he had. It was love and hatred, confusion and knowledge. And then he slipped it off his hand and placed it down on the table.

The air cleared, the smoke dissipating.

Stephen breathed in slowly and could smell, for the first time, the sharp bitterness of too much cologne and aftershave. He felt the damp warmth of the Hoffman’s hand even beneath the silk and let the fabric catch on roughened skin. “Did you play an instrument, Ambassador? A Guitar?”

“Cello,” Hoffman admitted, his eyes burning, watching Stephen’s hands. “Only as a past time—afraid I’m not very good.”

A hum left Stephen’s throat. There was a scar along the back of his index finger and it was shorter than the other one. “Did you cut this off?” He tapped the joint.

Hoffman laughed and it was a nervous, jittering sound. “An accident when I was younger, the paramedics had to sew it on.”

“ _Lucky_ ,” Stephen murmured and frowned, looking over the swollen knuckles. He readjusted his elbows, slid his forearm close to the ring, and pulled it away with a flick that had cool metal dropping into his lap. “Ambassador... is there any history of rheumatoid arthritis in your family?”

Hoffman froze. “I—sorry, what?”

“Rheumatoid arthritis; it’s when your immune system mistakenly attacks your joints,” Stephen didn’t touch the swelling, but his fingers hovered around the knuckles. “Even if you don’t, you should get your hands looked at, just in case.”

There was very little chance that the Ambassador had anything remotely close to arthritis or even a problem outside of just normal body functions, but Stephen wasn’t going to say that.

So he _lied_.

“Best to go to your doctor as soon as you return to the States; rheumatoid moves quickly.”

The chair made an unattractive screech as it scratched against the floor and Hoffman was on his feet. “Are you sure?” His voice was breathless in his panic.

“Quite sure,” Stephen said with a small nod, looking up under his bangs. “It’s always better to be safe than sorry, Ambassador.”

He didn’t bother watching Hoffman run from the bar and flicked his wrist, letting the ring drop from where his magic had squirreled it away into his hand. It hissed and spat, smoke circling his wrist like a cuff. The power tingled over the scars underneath the silk gloves, smoothing over broken nerves and steel implants. His hands stilled, motionless, _perfect._

The ring could give him the life from before. It could guide his hands. It could make all of his desires come true.

 _Can you bring her back?_ Stephen thought, watching the magic move up his forearm. He had become a doctor out of shame, out of fear, out of _love_. It turned into something bitter, in the end. His fear of losing more people under his hand created a surgeon who would only tolerate winning cases.

Pink paused, fluttering against his skin.

 _My sister_ , Stephen narrowed his eyes. _Can you bring her back?_

But he knew the answer before the smoke retreated back into the ring.

He placed it down on the table and turned to the people in the bar. They spoke to each other, laughed, drank. All those people who had no idea what was going on right under their noses and the magic that existed just under their feet.

Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps it helped stop more things like the ring being made.

Movement caught Stephen’s eye and he looked up, catching the glimmer of gold and black and purple before focusing on the man approaching through the crowd. T’Challa hadn’t changed from his black and silver suit and the Panther Spirit’s tail curled in pleasure behind him.

Stephen couldn’t decide whose eyes he should focus on, so he looked through one to the other. The Man and the Panther. The Panther and the Man.

T’Challa took Hoffman’s abandoned seat and nodded to the ring sitting empty and dark on the table. “Does that ring belong to you?”

The smile that came to Stephen’s face was a surprise. “No,” he admitted.

“Does it belong to the ambassador?”

“No.”

Leaning back in his chair, the King of Wakanda watched Stephen with the same attentiveness as the Spirit that had wrapped itself around his soul. “The ambassador said it was a family heirloom.”

Stephen could have laughed. “Just as I am sure the Roman who stole it from the Egyptian claimed it was an heirloom,” he drawled, thinking of the book and the history it had traced before the relic had been lost somewhere in Europe during the World Wars, “and the Egyptian to the Iranian and the Iranian to the Indian to the Samurai to the Mongolian to the blacksmith in Tibet who crafted it himself from power that wasn’t his to harness.”

He couldn’t lock something like this up in the Sanctum. It was too much of a desire for any person.

And there were still two more out there, touching people’s lives.

Stephen picked up the ring and watched the Panther Spirit’s ears perk forward in curiosity.

“Would you like to touch it?” he asked her.

King T’Challa was the one who answered; “it doesn’t sound like something that should be touched.”

No. Perhaps not. The Panther loved the King but he was wary—rightfully so—of power and the consequences it brought. “Sometimes,” Stephen said, grinning with just a hint of mischief, “we see our true selves when we touch great power.”

He let the ring tumble out of his hand to land on the back of T’Challa’s knuckles. Pink flared, bright and soft, winding between particles of sand, creating an armour around the Panther Spirit. She shook her head, chuffing slightly, and seemed to become brighter.

Silver armour formed along her head and over her shoulders, echoing across T’Challa’s own body. It was open around the eyes so the King could see clearly, blocky on the back so he could use his form to curl around others.

 “Fascinating,” Stephen took the ring back, cutting off the pink before it could sink its teeth in. “The Ring of Compulsion will offer anything you desire,” he said, “and you chose to give rather than receive.”

Fitting, for a child of Bast.

T’Challa looked up from his hands, eyes burning with something that could straighten backs and make the world feel safe. “And what does that mean?”

 _You are a good man,_ Stephen wanted to say, _better than I._ He stood up and pulled the Cloak off the back of the chair, wrapping it around his shoulders and dropping the ring into one of the many pockets.

“It means you will make a great King,” he said instead and tapped open a bridge to the mirror dimension. The world crackled and shifted, clinking like small wind chimes. A soft growl rose from the Panther Spirit, her eyes bright and knowing even as she nodded.

A goodbye, then. But not a farewell.

“I think we’ll see each other again, King T’Challa.” Stephen turned to go.

“Wait!” T’Challa stood, his chair pushing back with a screech against the stone, startling the sorcerer enough to pause and look back. “What do you see when you hold the ring?”

What do I see?” It had offered back his hands, but that had never been what he wanted. Stephen had always fought for something else, even in his darkest moments where he tried to find himself.

All he wanted was to help people.

The past was a power he needed to stop feeding, but it hung over him anyway.

Now, the ring was dark and silent because it could not give him what he wanted, just like how his fear of failure had never filled him with the life he’d needed. Stephen tried to smile, found that he couldn’t, and just laughed a small, sad laugh.

“Just a doctor, King T’Challa,” he said. “Nothing more.”

The mirror dimension crackled as he stepped into it and, as a ghost, he slipped away from the bar.

**Author's Note:**

> hnnnggg what am i supposed to do with this thing???? i made a [tumblr](https://bad-puns-and-even-worse-magic.tumblr.com/)so people could send prompts or even just with me about stephen (pls i have no friends who like stephen and i'm sure they're all tired of me). there's nothing on it cause i was working on this all week?


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